Harley Mazuk–From the Spitbucket

“Friends of Durruti” and Kindle Vella

noreply@blogger.com (Harley Mazuk) — Mon, 26 Jul 2021 20:23:00 +0000

I think maybe it was back in June that Amazon/Kindle sent me an email with a little about a new venture of theirs, Kindle Vella. They proposed Kindle Vella as a place for serialized stories—set them up in chunks of 600 to 5000 words. The first two or three are free to try to get readers interested. Readers pay a few “tokens” to read more episodes and finish the story. It sounded as if they wanted plot driven stories with strong cliff hangers at the ends of chapters and good hooks at the beginnings. I didn’t write anything for Kindle Vella specifically, but I do have some unsold, unpublished work in my inventory. So I decided to set up one of my stories for K.V.

All my published work thus far has been in the private eye vein. My agent suggested to me that I might want to try something more in the line of a thriller, rather than a P.I. tale. Baby steps. I wrote a non-private eye story, but I did keep my P.I. protagonist, Frank Swiver and another recurring character, his college chum, Communist Party of America member, Max Rabinowitz. The story “Friends of Durruti” is set in Spain in 1937, back before Frank became a private eye, when Frank and Max are fighting for the Spanish Republic. On the one hand, “Friends of Durruti” could be an origin story for Frank as a P.I., but basically, I’d call it a “men’s adventure” story, the sort I might imagine you’d have found in the likes of True, The Man's Magazine or Argosy, Adventure, even Cavalier in the 1950s. Unfortunately, for my publishing aspirations, those titles have long ago shuffled off their pulpy coils. The contemporary mystery mags didn’t want “Durruti,” so why not give it the K.V. treatment. Scenes are the building blocks of my fiction, and in general, I try to write each scene as if it’s a complete mini work of fiction, with its own inciting incident, rising action, climax, and falling action/denouement.

The whole “Durruti” story is 10,000 words, and I arbitrarily divided it into four parts of about 2,500 words each—give or take, trying to align the four episodes with four climaxes. It was not an exact science, but it was a way to operate. Without having any idea what the Kindle Vella product or pages on Amazon would look like, I posted four episodes. Amazon published them, in 24 to 72 hours, and the Vella thing went live on Wednesday, July 14. Amazon sent me an email in a pink or fuchsia color scheme to announce the debut, making me wonder if my men's adventure story was in the right place.

Here’s the Kindle Vella landing page:

https://amazon.com/kindle-vella/ref=sxts_snpl_1_0_47c2b50a-cecb-4694-b1fd-f608e649388f?pd_rd_w=NFPoX&pf_rd_p=47c2b50a-cecb-4694-b1fd-f608e649388f&pf_rd_r=6324QSRQMMSMBMY2ZZBD&pd_rd_r=7c8736bb-c7b3-46e4-904d-ee130e582fbf&pd_rd_wg=REhHd&qid=1627329266

You know my name and the title of my story. Can you find “Friends of Durruti” from the above link? Do you know what to do to read it by the time you arrive?

Here’s the direct link to my story: “Friends of Durruti” https://www.amazon.com/kindle-vella/product/B097XRKVH3

I hope you’ll drop a token in the slot and give it a read (actually, the first three episodes are free—no tokens required). And I’m thinking that some good reviews might give the story a little more visibility, so if you like “Friends of Durruti,” please take a few moments to write a positive review.

Strangeness on a Train

noreply@blogger.com (Harley Mazuk) — Fri, 28 May 2021 20:56:00 +0000

I’m a big fan of Alfred Hitchcock. Of Patricia Highsmith, I was never as enthused. But after reading Strangers on a Train, I’m enthused enough to re-read Ripley.

Why, you ask? Well, Hitchcock made a really masterful film, Strangers on a Train, in stunning black & white. Two men, Guy Haines, a tennis player, and Bruno Anthony (Charles Anthony Bruno in the book), meet on the pre-Amtrak passenger train running between D.C., where Guy lives, and New York. Through both the dialogue and the visual storytelling Hitchcock was so good at, we learn Bruno is a psychopath, who wants his mommy to himself, and would like to be rid of her wealthy capitalist husband—”the Captain,” she calls him—whom Bruno hates. Guy wants to divorce his wife, and but she’s refusing to sign the final divorce papers. One of Bruno’s hobbies is plotting perfect murders, and he proposes one to Guy—swap murders. You do my murder, I’ll do yours. Criss-cross. Bruno thinks it’s brilliant because, no one can connect Guy and himself, therefore, he’d have no motive for killing Miriam Haines, just as Guy has no motive for killing Bruno’s father. Guy absolutely refuses, but Bruno has another hobby, drinking, and ignores Guy’s objections.

Murder at the Amusement Park

Shortly after they meet, Bruno travels to Metcalf, follows Miriam, and in a classic scene still studied by film students, strangles Miriam (in a reflection in her eyeglasses) in an amusement park. He gets away clean, and proudly tells Guy what he’s done, and asks Guy to keep his part of the bargain, the bargain Guy never made. The film ends with another classic scene, (one which I like because it is so over the top), with a terrifying out-of-control merry-go-round ride, cops who shoot first and look out for bystanders later, children trapped on tons of whirling machinery, manic carousel horses, and a struggle to the death between Guy and Bruno.

Much as I love this film, which I’ve seen numerous times over the last 40 years, I am now in awe of the novel which I just completed for the first time. Whereas my man Hitch builds suspense through visual storytelling and action, Patricia Highsmith rachets up the tension in her writing by increasing the psychological pressure on the protagonist.

Patricia Highsmith is hard to like. She was a drunken, atheist, lesbian, who hated blacks, Koreans, and Jews. I’d previously read and enjoyed The Talented Mr. Ripley, but felt while it was a clever idea, it was too wordy, too introspective, and too slowly paced. In a word, overrated. And frankly, I spent several weeks trying to get traction in Strangers, falling asleep each night wondering how long Highsmith could drag out the initial scene on the train.

Recorded books seem to make all the difference for me on these slow-paced introspective books. I bought Strangers on Audible, and the opening flowed as easily as the movie version. Soon I found that some of those boring bits I’d rather skip when I’m reading show the characters’ psyches and in the case of Bruno, his psychosis. Guy is a contrast to Bruno in every way. Guy is sober; Bruno is a drunk. Guy is in love and planning to marry Anne; Bruno hates women, except his mother. They’re opposites. Or wait, as the book goes on and Highsmith weaves her web, maybe they’re not opposites. Maybe they’re opposite parts of the same character. Maybe they’re doppelgängers.

Inscribed "For Margaret avec plaisir
Patricia Highsmith"

A key difference between the Hitchcock film and the Highsmith book is that just a few pages past the midpoint of the book, Guy gives in to Bruno’s demand that he fulfill his part of the bargain—the other half of the double murder. Guy kills Bruno’s father. From there on Guy becomes guilt ridden and increasingly like Bruno.

It’s fair to say Hitchcock and Highsmith take the Train on two separate tracks from this point on. There is no tennis match in the book, no return to the amusement park, no final shootout, no merry-go-round disaster, no resolution of the plot in a final burst of action. In the book Guy is consumed with an ever-growing sense of guilt.

Charles Bruno’s father employed a full-time detective, Arthur Gerard, (suggestive of Inspector Javert) on his staff. Gerard knows Bruno hated his father and knows of his hobby of plotting murders. The story is set in the days when people wrote down names, addresses, and phone numbers of their acquaintances, and it’s not long before Gerard is asking Bruno, “Who’s Guy Haines? When did you meet him?” Gerard learns Haines’s wife Miriam was murdered not long after Bruno met Haines. Hmmm.

Bruno continues to foist himself on Guy and Anne, and Gerard, relentlessly, gathers in the threads, forms his theory. What’s most interesting though is how Highsmith entangles her characters, Guy and Bruno, in their webs of lies. Will they get away with it? Or will Gerard trap them? Highsmith builds suspense by dragging out Guy’s internal dialogues to the limit, keeping emotions heated to a fever pitch, and delaying the denouement, (or is it the actual climax?) Truly, she’s a master of suspense like Hitch himself, and in a way I might never have thought possible. In the end of the book, Gerard extracts a confession from Guy, a guy who could have committed the perfect crime if he’d kept his nerve.

Patricia Highsmith wrote a short book called Plotting and Writing Suspense Fiction, which I read several years ago, hoping it might help me learn the writing game. The book contained plenty of anecdotes about short stories--she was a big fan of Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine as a market for her work, and thus far in my career, it’s been the best market for my short stories—but I thought it was a little light on the “how to.” One takeaway though is the precept, “The starting point for a chapter outline should be the question to oneself, ‘How will this chapter advance the story?’” I perceive in Strangers on a Train, Highsmith advances the plot by progressively pushing the characters’ emotions to the point of no return, through strongly written chapters showing how their internal tensions build.

This little essay is primarily about what I learned about writing suspense from reading Highsmith. But here’s a sidebar. Many of Hitchcock’s films were adaptations from existing literature. Over the years, have read Robert Bloch’s Psycho, Daphne du Maurier’s “The Birds,” John Buchan’s The 39 Steps, Vertigo (D’Entre les Morts) by Boileau Narcejac, and “Rear Window” by Cornell Woolrich. I had no overarching plan in reading these. They fit in with my interests. Then last winter, I took a class called “Alfred Hitchcock and Adaptations,” and read

· Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier

· “The Song of the Dragon” (Notorious) by John Taintor Foote

· The Wheel Spins (The Lady Vanishes) by Ethel Lina White, and

· Rope by Patrick Hamilton

Some of the Hitchcock films follow the writing closely, others use the text more as a jumping off point. But in all cases, it’s been fun to look at the similarities and disparities between the different mediums, and see how Masters of Suspense work in their art forms.

Two Nadas, Please

noreply@blogger.com (Harley Mazuk) — Wed, 31 Mar 2021 20:40:00 +0000

I have been struggling over a new blog post for a couple weeks. I feel like writing about baseball. I could pull it off, but many interested in “A blog about my writing” follow “From the Spitbucket.” A couple months ago, I subjected them to a post about nude swimming in high school. Too soon to do baseball.

My writing has been stuck for a while, as it often is when Osher—a lifelong learning program I’m enrolled in at Johns Hopkins—classes roll, and we’re five weeks into a semester now. This semester, I’m taking Shakespeare with Jim Blue, a retired physicist who seems to enjoy the challenges of the bard. We’re just finishing Comedy of Errors, which I find delightful. Reading something like Comedy of Errors gives me a lift because, right or wrong, I perceive it as a piece of entertainment, exactly the sort of thing I like to write. Comedy of Errors is a lot of fun. Starting next week, something completely different, Titus Andronicus.

I’m also taking “Alfred Hitchcock and Adaptations,” with Mary Dutterer. Mary is an associate professor of English at Prince George’s Community College who had a minor in film studies. I enjoyed her class on the Coen Bros., and I love Hitchcock. So many of his films were adaptations of works written as short stories, novels, or plays, and I like the idea of looking at what he did with pre-existing texts, and how. My agent, Lawrence Jordan, has put the idea in my head that my fiction would translate well to a screen, and I’m enjoying looking at a written work and then at what changes in the Hitchcock movie, and what stays the same. Interestingly, I’ve already read a few works that Hitch adapted—The Birds, by Daphne du Maurier, Psycho by Robert Bloch, and Strangers on a Train by Patricia Highsmith, but we’re not covering those in this class.

My last class on “Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway,” has been the most exciting. It didn’t take long—the instructor, Robert Jacobs, mentioned the iceberg theory the first week and that knocked me on my butt. It was not so long ago—2016? 2017—that the iceberg theory was near to my heart and I hoped in the back of my mind when I would sit down at my humble cathode ray tube to write. But somewhere during the last three years, I lost the iceberg theory and started writing to the “movie in my mind” (MIMM) hypothesis. Under the MIMM, I try to paint for the reader some characters in a scene that he can visualize, and then try to keep the reader engaged in the action while the characters take it from there. It’s a fun way to write, and it seemed good enough for what I wanted to do—produce a piece of entertainment (viz. Comedy of Errors, above). But I frequently had the nagging feeling that I was leaving something out. Perhaps more correctly, that I was not leaving enough out.

I had some early success—my first two stories were published by Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Perhaps I got cocky or careless. Sure, it’s swell writing a fun story that readers can visualize. I’ve continued to have some successes, (more published stories in EQMM, agents offering to represent novels), but some failures too, which make me wonder if I’ve kept the literary quality up.

The revelation, the reminder to remember the iceberg, comes at a good time for me. I was slouching through a humdrum section of a WWII novella, trying to make it with only my characters, but even the characters weren’t fully alive. They were slouching toward a murder attempt at Lake Tahoe. I didn’t know enough about my plot to know what to write next. But since I was already thinking about Hemingway, the answer came to me, “write one true sentence.” Following which, it should be easy to write another. And another.

So much for any writer’s block.

After I finish this story, I’ll go back and work it again, (and maybe again), and fill in the rest of the iceberg. But that’s not all. A writer learns a lot from revisiting Hemingway’s short stories. Figuring out what is being said in a Hemingway short story and what is being not said tells the would-be author what he needs to know about the iceberg theory and how to use it. We’ve read stories about suicide, madness, adultery, abortion, impotence, and cowardice, from which we learn the writer must show the whole story, the wretched and horrible along with the beautiful. And watching how Hemingway slips into the internal dialogue of a broken mind shows you the depth of “one true sentence.”

I look forward to the Ken Burns documentary “Hemingway” beginning April 5 on PBS.

The Second Murderer

noreply@blogger.com (Harley Mazuk) — Fri, 05 Feb 2021 21:37:00 +0000

Second Murderer: What, shall we stab him while he sleeps?

First Murderer: No; then he will say ‘twas done cowardly when he wakes . . .

Second Murderer: Faith, some certain dregs of conscience are yet within me.

—Richard III, Act I, scene 4

Raymond Chandler quotes the above lines from Shakespeare in his letter to Blanche Knopf, of Alfred A. Knopf his publisher in the summer of 1939, reporting progress on his novel-in-progress, The Second Murderer. A year later, he had dropped that working title. The Second Murderer was to become Farewell, My Lovely.

Like other Chandler novels, Farewell, My Lovely (FML) (1940) was based on, cobbled together, or “cannibalized” (Chandler’s term), from three of his previously published stories—“The Man Who Liked Dogs” (Black Mask, 1936), “Try the Girl” (Black Mask, 1937), and “Mandarin’s Jade” (Dime Detective, 1937). Those latter two were Chandler’s only sales in 1937, and as such appear to be his sole source of income for the year.

Chandler had not yet developed the name Phillip Marlowe when writing the short stories. The detective in the first two was named Carmady, no first name given. The detective in “Mandarin’s Jade” was John Dalmas. But they were all Marlowe-in-training. Philip Marlowe—Chandler’s white knight, who was to be the best man in his world, and a good man in any world. Carmady and Dalmas narrate their stories in a similar first-person voice, with the same cynical sense of humor that Marlowe would later employ. They have a tough time hewing to their knightly chivalry in a world of gambling, booze, drugs, double-crosses, and most of all corruption. But they never stray from their personal code.

The plots of the individual stories have some twists and turns, but each plot feels resolved at the end of the story. In “The Man Who Liked Dogs” (TMWLD), Carmady is trying to find a kidnapped or runaway teenage girl, Isobel Snare, who was last seen with her large police dog. Carmady traces the dog to a machine-gun toting killer, Jerry “Farmer” Saint, the man who liked dogs. Carmady is hit on the head and comes to in a private psychiatric hospital, where the corrupt police chief keeps inconvenient people locked up and shot full of hop. He busts out and finds Isobel, who has secretly married Saint, on a gambling ship outside the three-mile limit.

“Try the Girl” (TTG) opens with Carmady down on Central Avenue, where he meets a giant of a man in exceptionally loud clothes, Steve Skalla. Steve just did eight years in the joint, and he’s out, looking for his girl, Beulah, in Shamey’s, a dive where she used to work. Shamey’s is under new management, no longer a white establishment, but a spot for the “colored folks.” Skalla gets too rough with the boss, and flees, hiring Carmady to find Beulah. Carmady’s search leads him to Shamey’s widow, an old lush. She’s heard Beulah singing on radio KLBL under a different name. Detective work at KLBL leads Carmady to Beulah’s house. But by the time Carmady arrives, Skalla has already found the house and killed the radio station exec who was having an affair with Beulah. The radio executive’s pre-psychotic widow shows up and pumps four .25 caliber slugs into Skalla’s belly. After they take him to the hospital, Beulah comes home. Carmady beats her up, so that she can say she shot the radio station exec in self-defense.

"Mandarin's Jade” (MJ) tells the story of a late-night ransom exchange for a jade necklace, during which p.i. John Dalmas takes a sap to the head, and he loses his client, Lindley Paul. (Lindley, by the way, lives on Quinonal Avenue in Castellmare, at the top of the 270 steps behind Thelma Todd’s sidewalk café. Dalmas climbs them.)

Castellmare in "Mandarin's Jade"

Montemar Vista in Farewell, My Lovely

Paul was carrying a cigarette case of special rolls—possible jujus—and those lead Dalmas to Soukesian the psychic. Soukesian chloroforms Dalmas, who shoots a foul-smelling Hollywood Indian. He meets Mrs. Philip Courtney Pendergrast, the young, blond, hard-drinking wife of a very old, very rich man. Mrs. Pendergrast owned that jade necklace. In a barfight, Dalmas is hit on the head with a full bottle.

If you see a coherent thread that runs through these three stories, you’re doing better than me. But consider that Chandler was more interested in writing and language, and in character than in a coherent plot. His success stitching the stories together reminds us that scenes are indeed the building blocks of fiction. We open with the scene from TTG in which Philip Marlowe (Carmady) meets Moose Molloy (Skalla) looking for his girl Velma Valento (Beulah) at Florian’s (Shamey’s). The action is essentially the same—Moose busts up the joint. This is a great opening scene, and Chandler has pumped it up from five and a half pages in TTG to thirteen and a half in FML. The descriptions in FML are similar, but richer in detail. The characters’ names have changed, and they have more depth.

After leaving Central Ave., Marlowe does a little detective work, and then we have the FML version of the scene in which he questions the hard-drinking widow, Jessie Florian, (Violet Lu Shamey). Later that afternoon, back in his office, he takes a call from a prospective client, Lindsay Marriott, (Lindley Paul of MJ), and we’re off to Marriott’s house—same as Paul’s house, at the top of the steps behind the sidewalk café. Marriott needs a bodyguard for his errand that night, making a payoff for a stolen necklace of Fei Tsui jade. Later that evening, in a deserted canyon, Marlowe waits in the dark and takes a sap to the head from behind. When he awakes, Marriott is dead.

How does Chandler connect Marriott and the stolen necklace to Moose and Velma? That’s one of the mysteries you can ponder for the next 200 or so pages. Basically, Chandler simply drops the scene with Marriott's murder into the story of Moose and Velma.

It’s not long before the calling cards packed in with Marriott’s special rolls lead Marlowe to Amthor (Soukesian) the psychic. Amthor calls the cops claiming Marlowe tried to blackmail him, but instead of taking him to jail, they knock him unconscious and lock him up in a private hospital run by Dr. Sonderborg (Dr. Sundstrand in TMWLD), a drug dealer who keeps him docile with heroin or morphine injections.

Chandler combines these disparate plot threads simply by dumping the scenes from the three short stories together and making the characters consistent throughout. Sure, Farewell, My Lovely is about Moose’s search for Velma, a second murder, a psychic, a drug dealing doctor, corrupt cops, a gambling ship, another murder, a ravishing blonde with a secret past, a corrupt police chief, a gambler who runs a corrupt city government, a double cross, and a fourth murder. It’s about scenes that probably have no business being together. If the novel seems consistent and lucid, it’s because the scenes are so well-written and the characters so much fun and so real, that the reader gets the overall impression of reading a swell, coherent novel. As Chandler said of his work, "my whole career is based on the idea that the formula doesn't matter, the thing that counts is what you do with the formula; that is to say, it is a matter of style."

	“The Man Who Liked Dogs”	“Try the Girl”	“Mandarin’s Jade”	Farewell, My Lovely
Detective/narrator	Carmady	Carmady	John Dalmas	Phillip Marlowe
Head of the asylum	Dr. Sundstrand			Dr. Sonderborg
Corrupt chief of police	Fulwider			John Wax
Honest ex-cop	Red Norgard			Red Norgaard
Gambling ship	The Montecito			The Montecito
Gambler				Laird Brunette
Drunken widow		Violet Lu Shamey		Jessie Florian
Femme Fatale		Beulah / Vivian Baring	Mrs. Philip Courtney Pendergrast	Velma Valento / Helen Grayle
The big man		Steve Skalla		Moose Malloy
The shine joint on Central		Shamey’s		Florian’s
Marlowe’s Client			Lindley Paul	Lindsay Marriott
Marlowe’s Helper			Carol Pride	Anne Riordan
The Pyschic			Soukesian	Amthor

Looking at the way I write and the way Chandler stitched the scenes from three divergent plots together, I’m thinking of trying the technique myself with some of my unsold stories.

P.S. Who is the second murderer? That’s one of the mysteries of the book I won’t spoil, but the Second Murderer is the one who killed Lindsay Marriott.

2020 Hindsight

noreply@blogger.com (Harley Mazuk) — Wed, 30 Dec 2020 21:44:00 +0000

I didn’t expect a pandemic. Even if I had, I have always proudly believed that we are an exceptional country, and I didn’t expect America to fare so poorly.

My family and I coped well. Tasia works from home; her requirement to go into the office once a week fell by the wayside. I’m retired from my government career, so I don’t have to go out. Our pay, pension, annuity, and social security benefits appear in our bank account at regular intervals, like magic. We’re both introverts and found it easy to stay in with each other and our son, Shane.

Poor Shane finished his B.S. in Chemistry in the early spring, and actually got a lab job in the early days of the pandemic when millions of others were losing their work. Sadly, it didn’t last, and I feel sorry for him, a recent grad stuck in the house for months with his parents. I think he’s being considerate of us, and doesn’t go out much or take chances that might kill us, but what sort of life is that for a young single man?

Our daughter, Molly, lives near Austin, Texas, in a county that's done well with Corona. Her young man, Tex, proposed and they've set a date for 2021 at the Driscoll. I'm raising funds for a wedding.

I stopped going to the gym around March 15, and what little muscle I had has melted away. Today, I’m ten or eleven pounds lighter than I was this time in 2019. It’s not just the loss of muscle from not working out—I suffered a mild attack of pancreatitis in July, stopped drinking (again), and really lost weight then.

Though I’m shocked about the loss of muscle, I’m happy about losing weight—I look better, feel better, my pants fit better, and even my balance has improved. I’ve been out there running, about three miles a day, about five days a week. The weather has had its usual ups and downs, but it was good enough that a snowstorm the week before Christmas was the first time I missed two days in a row during the pandemic. This has been my most consistent streak in the last 30 years. (Been a runner since ’78.)

We live in the ‘burbs, and I can roll out to run without a mask—early in the hot weather, around mid-day since November. After the first couple weeks I realized I didn’t need to pass within six feet of anyone. Traffic is light, and if other peds approach, it’s easy to cross the street.

I had a physical in August, a bad tooth pulled, a blood draw, and a skin-cancer checkup with my dermatologist in the fall. I’m frequently stiff. My lower back used to hurt occasionally. Now it hurts more regularly. But all in all, I feel well, just old.

I was 72 a couple days ago, just after Christmas.

I stopped going to my classes at Johns Hopkins for Old Farts (JHOF) around March 15. After closing a couple weeks, JHOF resumed via Zoom, and I finished the spring semester without much enthusiasm. I had no camera on my mojo box, so I had to borrow Tasia’s laptop. I acquired a webcam, and reluctantly returned to school for fall semester, but things picked up. Zoom classes were more enjoyable. In fact, with all the isolation, I think school was a good discipline. I needed to get upright and sit at the computer six to eight hours a week (I cut a few classes 😊).

I was developing a short story, “The Purple Journal,” early in the year. I had shared a bad, early version with my writers’ critique group in 2019, and after getting their feedback, I felt I did a great job revising it. I’m up to 21 rejections now.

I finished a first draft of my third novel, The Fall of the Hotel Biarritz. It’s basically an action story, a little over the top, in the manner of “The Gutting of Coffignal,” “The Big Knockover,” or Cotton Comes to Harlem. I decided to see if it was good enough to get the support of an agent, and it did—I signed with the Lawrence Jordan Agency. Lawrence seemed to genuinely enjoy reading my draft and had some ideas for turning Biarritz into the start of a swell career for me. Having flopped around like a flounder in my approach so far, I welcome his help. I was hoping my swell career might be further along by now, but I don’t think Lawrence has pitched the book yet.

Somewhere in here, I fired my writers’ critique group. They were good, but, man, the pandemic doesn’t make things easy—especially social interaction.

Lawrence Jordan put the idea in my head to try my hand at a thriller. I thought of making a baby-steps transition from what I write now to thriller, and I wrote “Friends of Durruti,” a “men’s-action-adventure,” suitable for True or Argosy. Unfortunately True folded in 1974 and Argosy in '78. “Durruti” is a prequel of sorts, Frank Swiver’s first investigation, a risky venture which he undertook in 1937 at the front in the Spanish Civil War. It’s a bit of an espionage story and a historical fiction, in which Frank crosses paths with Soviet General Kléber and his NKVD commissar Alexandr Orlov.

“Friends of Durruti” is the first work I’ve tried to push out without benefit of review of a writers’ critique group. Working with such a group though is not merely a matter of accepting a bunch of suggested edits—it’s about learning how others perceive your work, and how to read, edit, and revise accordingly. I’ve tried to apply what I’ve learned in my groups the last eight years.

Three rejections for “Durruti” so far. Which means I haven’t had a sale this year.

We expected Molly and Tex up here in Md. for Christmas. Prior to Christmas, Molly tested negative; Tex tested positive. Like so many others, they didn't travel, and like so many, we spent a quiet Christmas without loved ones. But Molly and Tex (really Mike) are both all right now, thank goodness. We missed you, Molly and Mike.

***

I’ve read more than usual during the plague. I’m a slow reader, so even more than usual isn't a great deal. But this year I benefited from Audible and recorded books. Usually I get a paperback and read along with the recording, but not always. I finally read The Magus, by John Fowles, which I’ve struggled to finish for years. The Magus, and Blood on Snow, by Jo Nesbo, were so well-written and so well-read that I didn’t need to follow along. I listened on my walks. (Patti Smith read Blood on Snow in a lower-East-Side deadpan that was perfect.)

I read The Girl in the Green Raincoat, by Laura Lippman, The Daughter of Time by Josephine Tey, The Winter’s Tale and The Tempest by William Shakespeare, a graphic novel version of The Great Gatsby, and The Case of the Careless Kitten by Erle Stanley Gardner. The Daughter of Time had no pace and went on for an epoch. The Shakespeare was disappointing, but Gatsby was great, and my introduction to Perry Mason was fun. My second reading of Cotton Comes to Harlem in early December was a bit of a revelation. Chester Himes was better than I remembered.

I read along with the Audible versions of Died in the Wool by Ngaio Marsh, The Safety Net by Andrea Camilleri, and The Snow Was Dirty by Georges Simenon. I could do a whole blog post about Dirty Snow, . . . and maybe I shall, in 2021.

Happy New Year! Here’s to better days ahead.

The Shrinkage of Anthony Bilge

noreply@blogger.com (Harley Mazuk) — Fri, 04 Dec 2020 19:07:00 +0000

Author’s note: Today’s post is not about writing. I just felt like telling this story that has been with me for 54 years . . .

I attended two schools that required students to pass the Red Cross Junior Life Saving Test to graduate. Yet here I am, not only a high school grad but also a Bachelor of Arts and a non-swimmer.

I’d say I slipped between some cracks at college. During freshman orientation, they gathered us all at the pool and told us to jump in, one-at-a-time, and they would assess our skills.

“I can’t swim,” I said to Coach Raymond. “If I jump in, you’ll have to haul me out.”

“Well, we don’t want to do that,” he said. “Just remember to sign up for a swimming class during the next two years.”

I made a note of it, but my follow-up was not so good. Still no one checked to see if I’d met the requirement when commencement came along. Those were perilous times. Four students at Kent State, 15 miles away from our campus, had just been killed four weeks earlier by the Ohio National Guard, and I don’t think anyone cared whether some long-haired freak like me could swim.

High school though, had been a different story. They kept track of things, and in the spring of my senior year, my gym period was in the pool.

Though my memory is foggy and I’ve been unable to verify this, I have a very strong recollection that the school closed the pool and “natatorium” to students of one gender when the opposite gender had swim class. The boys swam without suits. (It was supposed to be the same for the girls, but I don’t know.) Although this seems bizarre now, when I was seventeen and less experienced, it seemed perfectly normal. After all, the school doesn’t want to launder and pass out shared suits, and kids didn’t want to carry a used, wet swimsuit back to English class or stuff it in their lunch bags.

Apparently, some schools the custom was "clothed females, naked men."

Ours was a posh suburb, and our school had a successful swim team. The swimming coach was devoted to the team, but despised us non-swimming schlubs. Coach Barleycorn would toss us a water polo ball and say, “Get in the pool and have fun.” Then he’d retreat to his office, and to the bottle of gin he allegedly kept in his desk drawer, rather than helping us with our buoyancy

Now the school system and my suburb had been very white 12 years earlier when I started my education. The first black kid entered my elementary school when I was in sixth grade. Six years later when I was a senior, we were more diverse, but not much. I’d guess by 1966, the year of my graduation, Shaker Heights was less than five percent black. But of the 25 or 30 senior boys who couldn’t swim, it seemed at least half were black. Side note: I’d been showering with the guys after gym class since fifth grade, and these black fellows were among the first uncircumcised cocks I'd ever seen, the suburb at that time being about 70% Jewish.

I was a bit of an outsider at my school, a very blue-collar gentile amidst the upscale Jews, and I often felt the victim of bullying. I was terrified not only of the water, but of the other kids in the class, especially two black non-swimmers, Bass and Bilge. They were known (to kids like me) as poor students and troublemakers. Bass and Bilge sensed my awkwardness and were quick to tease and pick on me using our unsupervised class time to keep me uncomfortable. I did not learn to swim.

But due to the lack of interest shown by Coach Barleycorn, neither did anyone else. June rolled around and we were still shivering naked on the pool apron or splashing spastically in the shallow end for 45 minutes each week. Long about the end of May, it so happened that maintenance had started painting the ceiling of the natatorium, and there was a scaffold next to the high diving board at the deep end. Coach Barleycorn made an appearance with a class roster on a clipboard and a ten-foot pole. He said, “OK girls, climb up on that scaffold, walk out on the board, and jump into the pool. You'll be fine. I’ll be right here to fish you out with this pole, and I'll mark that you passed the Red Cross test.”

It could have been worse—they could have hung a rope from the scaffold and made us climb that, (rope-climbing had been my first major gym class trauma)—but at least there was a ladder to the top of the scaffold. I climbed the ladder. The connection between “scaffold” and “execution” was clear to me. I took a deep breath and sprang feet first into the air, eyes closed. I enjoyed the feeling of free-fall—my stomach flipped, like on a roller-coaster. I had some confidence that underwater, I would begin to rise, to bob up like a cork, and when my head broke the surface I breathed again and opened my eyes. Coach Barleycorn’s ten-foot pole was within easy reach.

There was nothing left to do. I was graduating. Academic finals were a cinch compared to this ordeal. So I relaxed and watched the others. The last was Anthony Bilge. He climbed up there on the 30-foot high scaffold and began to tremble. Details are lost on a near-sighted young boy who did not have his glasses in the pool, but I recall his taut hamstrings, and his slender glutes as he hunched over at the waist. Bilge was scared stiff. “Jump, Tony,” shouted his friend Bass.

He bent down and steadied himself on the scaffolding. “C’mon, kid. Jump,” yelled Coach Barleycorn. “I’ll pull you out.” Bilge clutched the diving board and started to cry. I could hear the sobs from thirty feet below. It was uncommon for a senior boy to cry openly in school from fear or terror. Bilge’s career as a bully was finished.

I felt vindicated. There were things Bass and Bilge could do in gym that I couldn’t, but at least I didn’t stand naked on the diving board high above my peers, crying.

Bilge was not in my social circle. I never knew if he graduated, though I assume they accommodated him somehow. I didn’t care. He no longer could terrorize me.

The Letter

noreply@blogger.com (Harley Mazuk) — Mon, 12 Oct 2020 20:37:00 +0000

Yes, I’m a big fan of mystery short stories, not only the hard-boiled work of Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett, but even the Victorian-era Sherlock Holmes stories of Arthur Conan Doyle. I have also long been enamored of the short fiction of W. Somerset Maugham. It doesn’t hurt that Chandler apparently read Maugham and gives him a tip of the hat in his great story, “Red Wind.”

I have four Penguin volumes of Maugham’s stories, (including Volume 3, the adventures of Ashenden, a secret agent of the British intelligence department during the First World War). Though his prose often seems old-fashioned and formal, he could always tell a story in a clear and straightforward manner. His stories teem with hypocrites, drunks, and murderesses. Although I pattern my writing more after Hammett and Hemingway, I have even tried my hand at a couple tales done in the style of Maugham. His stories often concern morality or moral principles and hypocrisy. People act out of passion, just as in a good murder mystery.

I won’t say Maugham’s stories are plot-driven rather than character-driven, but I believe they are more often about the tale he tells rather than about the moment of epiphany (as in the more “modern” style of Joyce or Chekov). The story itself seems paramount in the telling. What I like best about Maugham’s work is that they are melodramatic, and often heavy with irony.

Perhaps serendipitously, our movie in film class this week was The Letter, starring Bette Davis, based on Maugham’s story and stage play of the same name. Maugham had a habit of inserting thinly-disguised characters from real life into his literary works—such as Paul Gauguin in The Moon and Sixpence—and “The Letter” was based on a real-life scandal involving the wife of the headmaster of a school in Kuala Lumpur, who was convicted in a murder trial after shooting dead a male friend in April 1911.

In the original story, the female lead, Leslie Crosbie, shoots and kills a man named Hammond, who she says tried to rape her while her husband was away for the night. Leslie was “fragile . . . graceful . . . delicate . . . quiet . . . pleasant [and] charming.” She seemed well-suited to the lonely life of a planter’s wife in remote Malaya. In any event, “She was the last woman in the world to commit murder.” The British community in Singapore learns after his death that Hammond had taken up with a Chinese woman. Thus the white planters are quite prepared to accept Leslie’s story that Hammond was a sex-crazed rapist. Leslie is jailed but her acquittal seems a foregone conclusion. However, her attorney learns she had written Hammond a letter the day of his death telling him her husband would be out all night and inviting him to come by. The attorney buys the potentially incriminating letter from the “Chinawoman,” using the husband, Robert’s, life savings.

The endings of the story and the movie are different. In both, Leslie is acquitted, but the story ends with a subtle scene which shows Robert understands his betrayal and their marriage is finished. Leslie recounts to her lawyer shooting Hammond (six times) and her face becomes “distorted with cruelty, and rage and pain. You would never have thought that this quiet, refined woman was capable of such fiendish passion.” Then, “those passions, . . . were smoothed away as with your hand you would smooth crumpled paper, and in a minute the face was cool and calm and unlined . . . She was once more the well-bred and even distinguished woman.” A moment of epiphany, in the modern storyteller’s style. Hypocrisy, and great melodrama.

But in 1940, we had a motion picture production code, and The Letter failed on two counts—it contained adultery and an unpunished murder. And so in the film, in the last couple scenes, Leslie/Bette Davis finds a knife on the matting on her patio. She leaves it there. Robert abandons her. When Leslie walks out into the garden, Hammond’s Chinese woman is waiting with an accomplice and stabs her to death.

So it goes.

My film class rabbi (seriously) put forth the proposition that The Letter is William Wyler’s effort at film noir. As supporting evidence, he cites:

• Shadows

• Venetian blind lighting

• A McGuffin (the letter)

• A crime

• A femme fatale

Interestingly, I might make the argument that Maugham’s more open-ended short story is true noir. The main character, Leslie Crosbie, is alive and acquitted at the end of the story. But her husband Robert knows the truth and has walked out, the implication to me being that he intends to abandon her. Leslie’s lawyer has burned the letter, but it’s easy to infer that in the society she inhabits, the truth of her affair will seep out and she will become an outcast, shunned by colonial society, like her murder victim Geoffry Hammond had become when he took a Chinese woman for his mistress. Like most noir protagonists, she’d be better off dead.

noreply@blogger.com (Harley Mazuk) — Fri, 11 Sep 2020 17:45:00 +0000

Haiku

(Bless you!)

Way back in 2015, when I was still a young lad, I took a brief seminar called “Literary Detective Fiction.” It was a small but good class (four of us) with a good instructor (John Straley), in a lovely setting (Pebble Beach, Calif.)

John Straley (https://sohopress.com/authors/john-straley/) shared with us that he keeps a journal and writes a haiku each day. “A haiku has the same virtues as a murder mystery,” he says.

Often focusing on images from nature, haiku emphasizes simplicity, intensity, and directness of expression. A traditional Japanese haiku is a three-line poem with seventeen syllables, written in a 5/7/5 syllable count. John doesn’t care about the number of syllables. But he looks for a seasonal reference in the first two lines and an emotional turn/surprise ending. (The emotional turn helps me with the Aristotelean reversal I strive for in a good mystery or suspense story.) Finally, the ego of the writer should be invisible, which is also important for me to remember when writing fiction.

Beginning with a "nature" image seems consistent with John’s thoughts on writing:

Ecology is about place.
Everything starts with "the place"
Characters evolve from place
A story has to know where it is in time and place.

I managed to start a journal and write haikus (on and off) for about five months after the class. I enjoyed it. Here are a few of mine:

Evergreen trees pop
Against a fierce blue background
Not just for the rich.

We held most classes outside, and when I wrote that one, I was looking up at the underside of this tree:

Sunday, I found a few other Catholics and we went into Carmel, to church.

Early mass, warm sun
Shines bright on Carmel Mission
Not quiet but hushed.

From something said in class:

Surfaces in rain

Appear, shiny and poppy.

Vivid when wet.

Back in Maryland:

Dog days dragging on
Nothing moves, chiefly the air,
But including me.

Into a humid
Day I sink, like a warm bath.
I like cold showers.

2015 was a year of locusts here.

Late summer chirping,
Buzzing in the morning air.
Noisy li’l’ buggers.

Me (and War) on literary fiction:

Existential angst!
Hooie! What is it good for?
Absolutely naught.

And:

Wife’s office upstairs;
I work down here. Ought to keep
In touch more often.

Anyhow, that was fun. See if you can use the comments section to post some of your own haikus.

Pandemic Games:

noreply@blogger.com (Harley Mazuk) — Thu, 27 Aug 2020 19:42:00 +0000

Reading The Magus by John Fowles

“A lot of people” have written about their pandemic activities. Some catch up on housekeeping—disposing of evidence forgotten in the basement these last twenty years, replacing the front rotors on the ’67 Porsche 911, or burying the cat. There are self-improvement types—they learn Mandarin, bake sourdough bread, or start on that Charles Atlas course they bought off the back of a comic book. They take online classes or write a memoir. Some of my more literary acquaintances say, “I’ve always wanted to read War and Peace (or Ulysses), and now I finally have the time.”

As a retired person, I don’t find myself with more discretionary free time than I had pre-pandemic. But I do have this book that I’ve wanted to read for more than fifty years and have never managed to get traction in—The Magus by John Fowles. Will 2020 finally be the year for The Magus and me? I really loved the 1965 movie The Collector, based on Fowles’s literary debut of the same name. All right, I admit, my 16-year-old psyche was transfixed and inspired by the beauty, vulnerability, and toughness of Samantha Eggar (Victoria Louise Samantha Marie Elizabeth Therese Eggar to her close friends). I also enjoyed the cunning psycho played by Terence Stamp, (just as I used to enjoy Oliver Reed, Alan Bates and other moody Brits who appeared in British-American films of the era). I bought the book, The Collector, and it was a swell read. So when The Magus came out in ’65, I was eager to read it.

Anthony Quinn as Conchis; Michael Caine as Nicholas Urfe

I think The Magus was the first book I ever tried to read that I found too difficult to finish. There had been plenty of novels during my distinguished career as an English major that I threw across the room (Great Expectations), or bailed on and read the Cliff’s Notes (Moby Dick). Nonetheless, I thought I was a pretty bright kid, and had never met a novel I couldn’t beat. But The Magus was a challenge. First off, it is long. My current volume (I’m reading Fowles 1977 “revised version”) is 656 pages, and I’m a notoriously slow reader. Secondly, it’s a “literary” novel, not a thriller like The Collector, so it’s a bit of a slog. But it’s supposed to be good—The Magus made the Modern Library’s list of 100 best novels, and hit #67 on the BBC’s “Big Read” chart. Above all though, it is a mystery, which is perhaps one reason I’ve stuck with it.

Literary slog or not, there is discernible action, but the plot tends to get murky at times, not in the least because Fowles is introspective and wordy. A young man, perhaps in his late 20s, Nicholas Urfe in jolly old England has a brief affair with an Aussie girl, Alison. He doesn’t think he loves her and seeks to get away. He takes a job teaching English at a boys’ school on a Greek island, Phraxos, and there he meets—what else—a wealthy Greek, Conchis. Conscious—oops, pardon me—Conchis (about 60 years of age?) lives in seclusion on Phraxos, and there are hints Conchis may have betrayed Greek partisans or collaborated with the Nazis during WWII. Conchis invites Nicholas to his secluded house, Bourani, where he entertains him with stories of his life. Conchis—and Fowles—also engage Nicholas in an abundance of philosophy, psychology, misdirection, and trickery. Nicholas meets a beautiful twenty-ish girl, Lily, at Bourani, who Conchis says was his lover during WWI. At night Conchis tells stories, while ancient gods, like Apollo, chase Lily through the garden with erect phalluses.

Why do I keep trying to read this book? Well early on, I connected with Nicholas Urfe. Although he’s a bit of a self-centered bastard, Nicholas seems to be Fowles’ Everyman. He has a degree in English lit, like me, and he’s young, apparently handsome, and scores with the dames. But none of these things satisfy Urfe. He’s also disillusioned, depressed, even suicidal.

Where will Conchis and Lily lead Urfe? I’ll have to read on, but one thing I know—after college, I would have liked to have gone off to a Greek island to teach English. Further enticement: there’s an appealing undercurrent of eroticism throughout, and an exotic setting to match. And the reader wonders, who is Lily really?

Yes, The Magus is a mystery. I have tried to read this book at least three times. Once I gave up while still in England. A couple times I got to Phraxos. No matter how far I’ve read, I can’t figure out what will happen next. So I read on. This time I have the help of recorded books, and hearing The Magus read aloud seems to help unpack its density. This time, I’ve read further than ever before, and I've climbed Mt. Parnassus with Nicholas and Alison. This time I think I’m going to make it to the end.

The ancient Greeks say that if you spend the night on Parnassus, you’ll either become inspired or go mad. Perhaps reading The Magus to the end will have similar results.

Have you ever read The Magus? What's your pandemic reading?

Changing My Tropes

noreply@blogger.com (Harley Mazuk) — Fri, 14 Aug 2020 19:58:00 +0000

I’ve been writing a series for some years now about a private detective named Frank Swiver, who walks the mean streets of San Francisco circa 1948-’50 (so far). I became comfortable using private eye and noir tropes, such as

characters driven by loneliness, anger, sex, greed, ambition
cigarettes (everybody smokes)
gabardine suits, trench coats, fedoras (all the men wear them)
the femme fatale
characters haunted by the past
an unhealthy relationship with alcohol

Last year, I began to think, how did Frank become a private dick? Kind of like a comic book superhero origin story. I took an opening shot at it last year in “The Road from Manzanar,” (Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, March-April 2019), set way back in 1942. In “Manzanar,” Frank, a pacifist ever since his experiences in the Spanish Civil War, is trying to convince the draft board he’s a conscientious objector. Well, stories sometimes take the writer places he hadn’t planned to go, and this one turned out to be a fun, complete adventure before I ever got where I was headed about the origin of Frank’s Old Vine Detective Agency.

But I was headed for a time before “Manzanar,” when Frank took the first steps on his ultimate career path. It happened in Spain in August 1937, when he did a little investigating while he and the Abe Lincoln Battalion were bivouacked around Bujaraloz, preparing for an offensive against Zaragoza, capital of Aragón. This month I wrote a first draft of that story, “Friends of Durruti.” It was great fun writing, even though I found myself adrift in new sub-genres—a bit of Hemingway-war-drama/romance, and a bit of Alan-Furst/Somerset-Maugham-espionage/intrigue. Whatever it was, it did not use all the same tropes as stories from P.I. Central.

Buenaventura Durruti

By tropes, I mean plot, character, or setting expedients that help make the story run, and that the reader recognizes as a device or trope. What I like about tropes is the familiarity. In a P.I. story, I can describe a mysterious woman as tall or short; but either way, if she’s the femme fatale, the reader knows she has gams and they’re long enough to reach the ground; whether she’s a blonde or a brunette, she has desires for sex, money, or escape from the constraints of her life—uncontrollable, all-consuming desires that will lead to her destruction, (and if he’s not careful, to the P.I.’s demise, too).

Here are a couple tropes that you won’t find in “Friends of Durruti:”

there is no client, bringing a case to the P.I. to be investigated.
there are no cops, so hapless that the P.I. is the only guy around who can solve the case. (In “Durruti,” Frank is in a war zone, and the only “police” at hand are the Soviet NKVD.)

Some things remained the same, or similar. Frank’s style, language, and fashions tend to be anchored in the 1930s and 1940s. In Spain, he’s traded in the shabby gabardine suit, trench coat, and fedora of his future P.I. days for a mismatched and shabby uniform (and fedora). He can’t get fresh Camels, so he rolls his short unfiltered smokes with Spanish Picadura tobacco.

Other tropes remained. I continued to write about Frank’s struggles with demon alcohol. (Is that a P.I. trope or what?) Frank’s friend Max brought him to fight in Spain to get him away from the wino tendencies that were causing him to slip into darkness. But his deep and intense relationship with alcohol continues in “Durruti” as the femme fatale introduces him to absinthe—legal in Spain.

And the femme fatale, one of my favorite tropes—we have one in Durruti. Felina, a dame driven by loneliness, sex, and desire for a better life. Frank must determine—is Felina a good Catholic girl? Or a duplicitous cortesana?

A not uncommon trope of mystery/P.I./noir fiction is characters haunted by the past. A slight twist in this story: Frank is living the past that will haunt him in his P.I. days.

And some things barely changed at all. Frank’s a tough, cynical guy with street smarts. Not strong in deductive reasoning, Frank solves mysteries with dogged persistence.

Perhaps the main trope in “Friends of Durruti,” is not from the P.I. sub-genre specifically, but from noir--disillusion, pessimism, and the unhappy ending. In Frank’s noir-ish P.I. world, his quest to solve a mystery often leads him into a shadowy world of betrayal in which clients and criminals can blur. In Republican Spain in August 1937, Frank and Max fought for the Second Spanish Republic, whose military consisted of all manner of left-wing militias--Socialists, Communists, Anarchists, Social Democrats, and Trotskyites, along with the International Brigades, all led by Soviet officers and Spaniards trained by the Soviets. Their enemies were the Nationalist army of Spain and the Spanish African troops, the fascists, Falangists, Carlists, Requetes, and Catholics, and the Italian troops sent by Mussolini and Hitler’s Condor Legion. Frank Swiver’s allies and his enemies blur among the complex and shifting alliances, and he and Felina do not live happily ever after.

Suspense

noreply@blogger.com (Harley Mazuk) — Thu, 30 Jul 2020 17:04:00 +0000

Suspense

By Harley Mazuk

I take a detective fiction class at Johns Hopkins for Old People (hereafter: “J-Hop”), most every year, and it’s been a consistently good class, due in no small part to the instructor, Melinda Kramer, a personable doctor of English from Purdue. My main complaint over the years is that Melinda expects us Old People to do too much reading. But this year Dr. Kramer has chosen her reading list from among top mystery novellas—supposedly books of around 200 pages or fewer that you can read in an afternoon. I happily signed up for this fall.

Our first short novel is The Girl in the Green Raincoat, a Tess Monaghan Novel, originally published: January 18, 2011, author: Laura Lippman, a well-regarded Maryland writer and fellow member of my Mid-Atlantic Chapter of Mystery Writers of America. (Haven’t seen her at any of the local meetings yet.)

Ms. Lippman writes in an afterword of sorts, “. . . of course . . . the book . . . owes much to Rear Window . . .” referring to the popular Alfred Hitchcock film of the same name. While I love Hitchcock’s films, being a writer, I thought I’d look at how Green Raincoat compares to Hitch’s source, the short story, “It Had to Be Murder,” by pulp fictionist, Cornell Woolrich.

There are similarities (and differences) between Lippman’s novel and Woolrich’s story. Woolrich, a sad (to the point of tragic), and prolific writer from the first half of the twentieth century, is often called “a master of pure suspense.” I admit, sometimes he’s a bit corny, as in his novel The Phantom Lady, in which chapter one is titled, “The Hundred and Fiftieth Day before the Execution,” chapter three is “The Hundred and Forty-Ninth Day before the Execution,” chapter six “The Ninetieth Day before the Execution,” chapter 19, “The Fifth Day before the Execution,” etc. Corny, but effective. I decided to compare “suspense” in the two works.

The interwebs says “Suspense is a state of mental uncertainty, anxiety, of being undecided, or of being doubtful. In a dramatic work, suspense is the anticipation of the outcome of a plot or of the solution to an uncertainty, puzzle, or mystery.” In my words, suspense is anxiety about uncertainty. In The Girl in the Green Raincoat, the reader tries to figure out what Don Epstein is doing in his world, over there across the park. But our information is limited to what Tess and her helpers can find out. This builds suspense and increases our engagement in the book and particularly in the story of Epstein and his wives. Epstein’s story of dead wives and girlfriends is certainly enough to make us suspicious of him. Ms. Lippman increases our suspicion and turns the suspense and danger screws by confining our point of view to what Tess knows, and by confining Tess to bed with preeclampsia. The reader gets a sense of claustrophobia, and of being a prisoner, and a prisoner in a cage that confines, but does not protect.

Hitchcock’s Rear Window is perhaps “iconic” from before that word became so overused. For that reason, one must read “It Had to Be Murder” carefully to be sure that the details you comprehend about the plot and the characters are actually in the text. Much of the Rear Window story exists only in the movie. For example, in the short story, the reader only knows that the protagonist, Jeffries, is laid up for some reason and can’t move about or fend for himself. We don’t find out until the last line of dialog on the last page that it’s a cast on his leg that immobilizes Jeffries.

Interestingly, this reader didn’t care how or why Jeffries was laid up. It’s very sharply done, but the author has everyone trying to figure out what exactly Thorwald is doing, not the backstory of Jeffries. As with Epstein in Green Raincoat, we know that Thorwald is acting suspicious and we desire to know what is going on, yet Woolrich, (who published “It Had to Be Murder” in Dime Detective under his pen name “William Irish,”) has limited our information by confining our point of view to what a confined man, Jeffries, can find out. This builds suspense and deepens our engagement in the story of the Thorwalds.

I think Ms. Lippman turns up the suspense and tension in the last few chapters as she uses a Hitchcock-like technique—cross-cutting points of view, moving quickly from scene to scene, and from character to character until Tess Monaghan’s winterized sun porch is broached. As Dr. Kramer notes, Tess’s “role as observer and crime solver is turned on its head when the suspected murderer appears at the bedside, breaking through the observer’s protective ‘fourth wall,’ so to speak, and bringing the near certainty of death directly to the trapped detective. In addition to being an ironic twist on the locked room, a staple of mysteries, this is a marvelous example of ‘the biter bitten’ – being treated in the same way one has treated another, usually badly.” The twist doubles the suspense, and the fun.

Cornell Woolrich makes good use of the attractions and dangers of voyeurism and manipulates the reader by making him part of the entire voyeuristic enterprise. Then as in Green Raincoat, he turns the tables:

“Suddenly, death was somewhere inside the house here with me. And I couldn’t move, I couldn’t get up out of this chair.”

Jeffries is discovered, trapped, and threatened by Thorwald. Though Woolrich is a master of suspense, his craft relating the action is shaky here. He describes Thorwald taking his shot, then trying to escape, but for me the picture Woolrich is painting is hard to follow in this last scene.

Of course, Woolrich’s tale was preceded by H.G. Wells’ short story, “Through a Window,” the setting of which is that of a man, convalescing from an unspecified injury, which prevents him from using his legs, who spends his waking hours looking out of a large window with a view of a nearby river. And by no small coincidence the next book up in our detective fiction class at J-Hop is Josephine Tey’s The Daughter of Time, about a detective with a broken leg . . .

noreply@blogger.com (Harley Mazuk) — Mon, 20 May 2019 18:39:00 +0000

Interview with R.M. Greenaway

R.M. Greenaway

I first met R.M. Greenaway when she sent me an e-mail asking me about noir. I don’t know if my reply was helpful, but noir is a favorite subject of mine, and I immediately liked R.M. for asking.

Born in Battersea, England, R.M. spent her childhood in the Toronto area, and later Vancouver, B. C. She has worked a variety of jobs, including as a court reporter. We sat down, a continent apart—R.M. lives in Nelson, British Columbia—for this interview.

From the Spitbucket: What writers influenced you to become a crime writer?

R.M. Greenaway: Ed McBain taught me to love the police procedural, and that writerly rules may be broken. Ruth Rendell taught me that the mundane can be just as fascinating as the flashy, and that humour lurks in dark places. Donald Westlake taught me, well, too much to describe here!

Spitbucket: What moves you most in a book you read?

R.M.: When the real world recedes and I forget that I'm reading. That probably first happened with the Narnia chronicles when I was a whole lot younger, and happens less and less with time, so when I do get sucked into a book these days, I consider it a gem.

S: You're organizing a dinner party. What three writers, living or dead, do you invite?

R.M.: Harley Mazuk, because I have a feeling we'd have lots to talk about. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, as I'm so interested in the world he lived in, and he'd be so interested in where things have gone since his death. And Ruth Rendell, because she was such a great writer and so prolific, and I'd like to find out how she did it, and maybe kiss the ground she walks on.

S: Do you have an agent?

R.M.: Yes, thank goodness. She takes care of all the stuff I wouldn't have a clue about.

S: Do you outline meticulously before beginning to write a novel? Or do you write by the seat of the pants? Or something in between?

R.M.: In between. I try hard to know where I'm going, and usually fail. But the failures always end up more pleasing than the meticulously worked out bits. Seems the men and women I'm writing about often like to go their own way -- and I'm more than happy to let them do so.

S: Are you a disciplined writer? Describe a typical writing day? Do you go for a particular daily word count?

R.M.: My first answer to this question is “LOL,” followed up by “Oh, how I wish.” Honestly, I haven't written a useful word in over a month, and that's because of Left Coast Crime, a birthday party, Noir-at-the-Bar, travel, day-job deadlines, a fence that needs building to keep out the bears, and more. My ongoing resolution to go for a walk in the morning followed by a couple hours of writing keeps getting pushed further along. But I MUST get serious soon, or I won't have my draft ready by publisher's deadline. And really, getting back to Book 6 is what I look forward to most.

S: Bears can climb fences, can’t they?

R.M.: Yes, well, halfway through building that fence (at my son's house, actually) the neighbour strolled over to tell us the bears will just jump over. But I think bears, like the rest of us, prefer the path of least resistance. At least we're hoping.

S: What themes do you like to explore in your writing?

R.M.: Relationships is a big one with me, both in reading and writing. A book that doesn't delve into relationships doesn't really grab me. I love relationships that collide, e.g. oddball matches, misunderstandings, mistrust. Building and breaking up friendships is one of my megalomaniacal passions, along with creating and solving wicked crimes.

S: Tell us about your B.C. Blues series. (Do the B.C. Blues wear blue? What happened to the red dress jackets of the RCMP?) Is your series character-driven or plot- driven?

R.M.: It's true, RCMP still wear the smashing scarlet tunics, but only for special occasions. The workaday clothing for uniformed members is mostly navy blue. The "Blues" in the series title is an allusion to atmosphere more than anything, though. Plus I love the blues (music)!

The series is set in the Pacific Northwest -- more specifically North Vancouver. Maybe you know the area... if you don't, it's kind of a fast-sprouting city, though not so much of a throbbing metropolis as Vancouver which sits just across the strait waters. North Van is hard to describe. It's traffic-snarled but serene. It's surrounded by mountains, rain forest, and ocean. It's veined with rivers and creeks and countless hiking trails. I like North Van as my main setting as it can vary widely within a few minutes' drive, from dock yards to high rises to woodsy canyons.

The books are character-driven but paced to move in a fast yet thorough way through twisted criminal investigations. They also come fully equipped with an evolving backstory -- which you might want to follow along from Book 1—Cold Girl.

RM’s first novel, Cold Girl, won the 2014 Arthur Ellis Award for best unpublished novel

Cold Girl is set further north, amidst snow flurries and desolate highways, but in Book 2, Undertow, RCMP Constable Cal Dion is transferred back to North Van where he belongs, but also back to the complications he left behind after a seriously bad decision and car crash ... but that's the backstory for you to discover!

Next in the series after Undertow comes Creep, and in March this year came Book 4, Flights and Falls, and I'm now in the editing stages of Book 5, River of Lies along with writing Book 6.

The most recent release, Book 4 in the B.C. Blues series.

As for backstory, though, I try hard not to fall into the trap of letting it take over. I like to deliver what I like to read, which is a strong stand-alone plot with continuing character development. I want my readers to pick up any book in the set and be swiftly oriented to what's going on behind the scenes. I think backstory is important, but should stay where it belongs, in the background.

S: Where can readers find your books? Where can we learn more about your work? How should readers or fans contact you?

R.M.: All my books are widely available, in bookstores, libraries, and online through the major e-book sites. If you'd like to get a copy but for any reason can't, please do contact me through my website (rmgreenaway.com). Also if you like the books or have a suggestion, drop me a line and let me know, because feedback from readers is the best nitro-boost to the spirit there is!

Thank you for reading, and thank you, Harley, for inviting me to take part! Oh, and yes your perspective when I was writing "A Study in Noir" for the Strand Magazine a couple years back was a great addition, so thank you for that as well!

Noir at the Bar, below, Shebeen Whiskey House in Gastown, Vancouver, B.C. R.M. is second from right:

Links for R.M. Greenaway:

Website: rmgreenaway.com

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/rmgreenaway

Twitter: https://twitter.com/rmg1622

Goodreads: https://goodreads.com/rmgreenaway

Instagram: https://instagram.com/raemg2

The Road from Manzanar in "Black Mask"

noreply@blogger.com (Harley Mazuk) — Mon, 11 Mar 2019 20:03:00 +0000

My newest story, “The Road from Manzanar,” appears in the March/April edition of Ellery QueenMystery Magazine as the “Black Mask” story. Raymond Chandler’s first published short story, “Blackmailers Don’t Shoot,” in 1933 appeared in Black Mask back when the imprint stood alone as American crime fiction’s greatest pulp. Before Chandler, Dashiell Hammett’s work appeared in Black Mask regularly, including The Maltese Falcon, which ran as a four-part serial.

Max Rabinowitz’s Alfa Romeo 6C 2300B (as seen in “The Road from Manzanar”)

I believe four of my five EQMM stories have run as “Black Mask” features, and I used to think that might be because they were noir or at least noir-ish. However, I’m coming around to the realization that my stories are in “Black Mask” because I write in a pulp fiction style. I’m lucky to have Janet Hutchings, editor at EQMM, because it seems Janet understands the style. Having your stories published means you found the right home for them. For me, “Black Mask" looks like home.

Tenaya Lake, looking at Polly Dome, Photo by Gregg M. Erickson, licensed under the Creative Commons license.

A worthy editor, generous with his time and his feedback, whom I queried with “Manzanar” replied “I'm not going to be able to use it . . . It's too much of a political statement for me in much the same way I don't care for explicit sex scenes or violence porn; when these elements become the reasons for the story itself, they become their own things.” I plead guilty. “Manzanar” is my first work to make a political statement.

To me the political elements aren’t the raison d'être for the story. I’m telling the story of a guy who lines up a date with an attractive blonde. The guy has a camera and the idea that given a spectacular setting and enough Zinfandel, the blonde will take off her clothes for the camera. Beyond that, their private drama plays out against the backdrop of historical events—in this case the internment of Japanese Americans on the west coast—and raises questions about American identity. They’re questions a thinking couple asks in June 1942, questions we still may be asking.

On a lighter note, I once drove my family north out of Yosemite Valley in a rented Dodge minivan, onto the Tioga Road which crosses the northern wilderness area of the park at a high elevation. (Tenaya Lake is at 8,150 feet.) We parked at the campground at the lake and ate our packed lunches. I heard some other folks at the campground speaking German. We were big fans of John Cleese and Fawlty Towers, so naturally, I said to my young daughter, “Don’t mention the war, Molly. I think they’re Germans.”

After lunch, we went for a hike on the big rocks and domes north of the lake. When we returned to the campground, the Germans were huddled around one of our front tires.

“Was machen Sie da?” said I.

One of the Germans spoke English well. “You have a leak in your right front tire; you were losing air, mein herr.” That was bad—a leak in the tire at a high altitude in the wilderness. There had been no services since we left Crane Flat, though there was a visitor center at Tuolumne Meadows, a short distance east. But the German went on, “Fritz is a tire specialist in Düsselldorf. He has his kit with him, and he has patched and repaired your tire.” Indeed, Fritz had done wonders. Though there was only about 17-18 pounds per square inch of air pressure in our tire, the leak had stopped, and we rolled into the Tuolumne Meadows Visitor Center and pumped it up. Fritz’s patch held for the rest of the trip, through Fresno to the Central Coast and back to San Francisco.

I've kept the incident in my mind, always wanting to use it in one of my stories. Readers of “The Road from Manzanar” may see a parallel in the carburetors in Max’s car—an Apache carburetor specialist comes to Frank Swiver’s aid when the mixture in the carbs has to be adjusted for altitude.

noreply@blogger.com (Harley Mazuk) — Sat, 22 Dec 2018 19:57:00 +0000

Merry Christmas, friends and readers!

How I'm Spending Summer Vacation

noreply@blogger.com (Harley Mazuk) — Sat, 14 Jul 2018 15:48:00 +0000

Writing is an interesting game, and I’m still new enough at it to observe and track my methods, keeping an eye out for what works. It’s about 60 days since my JHOP (Johns Hopkins for Old People) classes ended in May, and I began to ease into my Daily Writing Habit. I have long felt that I write best and most productively when I write daily.

I figure writing six days a week would be a good target—51 days the last two months, but I have managed only 34. That is about 67 percent of what I should have done, so I guess I get a C- or D+, but it has felt more like B or B+ work.

I’ve been working on novels, by the seat of the pants. Although I don’t believe it’s wise to work on multiple projects at one time, but I have shifted back and forth between two novels. My goal when I sit down to write is 500 words, which is a good day’s work, but the session generally ends when it’s time for me to put on my toque and prepare dinner for my wife and myself. I’ve averaged 569 words per day those 34 days, and I've passed 1,000 words three times since June 30.

The seat of the pants thing is working well. I start with a character or characters and a scene I might want to write. I try to describe the characters and put them in motion, then follow their leads. For instance the bulk of the writing, 19,000 words, has been The Fall of the Biarritz, in which my series private eye, Frank Swiver, agrees to fill in as house dick at the posh Biarritz Hotel for two weeks for his friend who’s recovering from an appendicitis attack. I think of it as a bit of an ensemble adventure, bringing together a cast of disparate villains and schemers and a taste of international intrigue. I’m really happy with how I’ve started with just a character and situation—p.i. fills in as acting house dick—and the plot ideas just keep coming.

Virtual Book Tour

noreply@blogger.com (Harley Mazuk) — Wed, 21 Mar 2018 12:58:00 +0000

It's a good thing this is a virtual tour, or we might have been virtually snowed in!

Here's an interview I did at the Dark Phantom Review on my book tour this month.

And

here's my guest post on reasons to commit murder most foul at Lori's Reading Corner.

I hope you enjoy these. There's still time to comment on the original sites, or if you have any questions, you can use the comment feature here, at From the Spitbucket.

A Blue Million Books: FEATURED AUTHOR: HARLEY MAZUK

noreply@blogger.com (Harley Mazuk) — Mon, 12 Mar 2018 19:56:00 +0000

Here's today's stop on my virtual book tour. I thought I'd post this one because it's, well, different. A Blue Million Books: FEATURED AUTHOR: HARLEY MAZUK: ABOUT THE BOOK   During the Spanish Civil War Frank Swiver and his college pal, Max Rabinowitz, both fall in love with Amanda Zingaro . . .
And
Here's an interview I did at The Writer's Life . . .

Q: Welcome to The Writer's Life! Now that your book has been published, we’d love to find out more about the process. Can we begin by having you take us at the beginning? When did you come up with the idea to write your book?

Harley: I heard a story, probably a feature on National Public Radio, about the old cigar factories of Havana and Tampa. Each factory employed a lector—a person who read to the workers as they hand-rolled cigars. Imagine, a factory so quiet that you could read aloud to the employees. I pictured a beautiful woman with dark eyes and dark hair, rolling cigars on a tawny, bare thigh. I knew I wanted to write that scene and put it in my book. Read more . . .

Book Girl: Guest Post: The Story behind Last Puffs

noreply@blogger.com (Harley Mazuk) — Thu, 08 Mar 2018 14:35:00 +0000

Here's a guest post I did for The Girl Who Loved Books blog:

Book Girl: Guest Post: The Story behind Last Puffs: The Story behind Last Puffs (450 words) by Harley Mazuk Last Puffs is a pulp fiction tale of war, love, betrayal, revenge,...

New Deal with New Pulp

noreply@blogger.com (Harley Mazuk) — Fri, 15 Dec 2017 16:09:00 +0000

After dithering about the contract for an excessive amount of time, I accepted today New Pulp Press’s offer to publish my second Frank Swiver novel, tentatively titled, Last Puffs. Chuck Newman at New Pulp was very patient with me, and yesterday put my mind enough at ease to sign the contract. It helped that he seemed genuinely enthused about publishing Last Puffs, and that makes an author feel good.

Last Puffs is not a sequel to White with Fish, Red withMurder, in that it doesn’t pursue the story line of Vera Peregrino and Frank. Vera doesn’t make an appearance in Last Puffs, though she was in an early draft. Frank is responsible for two daughters, and though he and Vera were on the outs, she was the only friend he could think of to ask if she could watch the girls for two weeks. But I wrote her out when Bimla, one of the working girls from the Lotus House moved in with Frank at the end of Part II.

During the year or two I worked on Last Puffs, I was discovering that some of my favorite Raymond Chandler short stories were long by today’s standards—”Red Wind,” “Goldfish”—about 15,000 words each. I learned that The Maltese Falcon and Red Harvest were serialized in Black Mask magazine. Each appeared in 15,000-word segments over four issues. The Dain Curse was another novel that could be divided into four linked stories. I decided to write Last Puffs on the model of The Dain Curse, admittedly not Hammett’s best work, but I like the structure.

We open the book in "Aragón" in 1938. Frank and his best friend Max Rabinowitz are fighting in the Spanish Civil War on the side of the Republic. They meet and both fall in love with Amanda Zingaro, a beautiful and courageous Republican guerilla.

Part II is “The Girls from Nanking.” It is now late 1948. Frank is trying his hand at being a private eye. Max is a successful criminal attorney. Frank takes a case for Joan Spring, half-Chinese wife of a wealthy banker. He resolves it, though client Joan ends up in jail on suspicion of murder. In the spring, Max abruptly abandons his practice and moves to . . . Fresno.

And in “We’ll always Have Fresno,” (Part III), the boys are reunited with Amanda who was working in a Fresno cigar factory, plotting revenge against the fascists from her home village that she has tracked to California.

It all comes together (or comes apart for Frank) in Part IV, “Last Puffs.” Will Frank be a good father to the ten-year-old boy Amanda says he fathered? Why does the lad look like Max? Who shot Max in Fresno? Will spy Joan Spring escape to Red China? Can Frank help Amanda on her mission to avenge her father when he’s sworn off violence? Can he protect her from the sadistic Veronica Rios-Ortega who seeks to eliminate any witness to the murder of her husband?

Join Frank Swiver and me for Last Puffs, from New Pulp Press.
(http://www.newpulppress.com/)

Jo Nesbo's Snowman

noreply@blogger.com (Harley Mazuk) — Tue, 29 Aug 2017 20:28:00 +0000

Hei, there, (“hei” is Norwegian for hello).

I read The Snowman, by Jo Nesbo (Yo Nesboo) a Harry Hole (Hari HEU-leha) novel. Not my normal cup of tea, but it was the summer reading in my new Hopkins class, “Detectives at Home.” Nordic noir is not my cup of tea because there are too many serial killers, crimes are brutal and graphically described, the landscape seems bleak (to me) and there always seems to be this underlying tension of misogyny and violence against women. But once you get past all that, Nesbo seemed to be a good writer, certainly a few cuts above Stieg Larsson, and this was a clever multi-level police procedural.

The book did a good job incorporating the Scandinavian setting and environment into everything—plot, characters, theme. Harry Hole (depressed, alcoholic, and alone), and a couple other principle characters were well-drawn and developed, though many of the victims were just flat types. I liked Harry, and a female detective on his team, found them interesting and cared about them. I disliked every chapter starting out in another character’s point of view—usually the next victim who only live until the end of the chapter.

There were some clever oddities—murders occurred on the evening of the first snowfall, but by coincidence the ones described were on the nights of U.S. presidential elections. The writing was generally straightforward, plain and unadorned, but occasionally there were effective images and allusions, and weird, unexplained metaphors, the weirdest being that Harry’s house was being treated for a severe case of mold. The Mold Thing is probably worth a whole blog post in itself, but I don't understand it, so I'll leave that to someone else to write.

I don’t know that I’d read another Jo Nesbo, but he’s a good writer worth a try if you’ve not read any or if you enjoy serial killer police procedurals.

Book signing

noreply@blogger.com (Harley Mazuk) — Tue, 18 Apr 2017 00:18:00 +0000

Sunday, April 23

Book Signing

With author Harley Mazuk signing his novel,

White with Fish, Red with Murder,

at the Mystery Writers of America table, between noon and 3 p.m.

White with Fish, Red with Murder will be for sale at the festival, or bring your copy for an autograph.

http://www.harleymazuk.com/

Kensington Day of the Book Festival

────

Howard Ave. at Armory Ave., Kensington, MD

────

Harley will be signing books and discussing noir, pulp fiction, and wine with friends old and new.

Noon to 3 P.M.

────

Come on by!

────

Harley Mazuk

White with Fish, Red with Murder

www.harleymazuk.com/

Harley.c.mazuk@gmail.com

www.dayofthebook.com

The Boy Who Cried Virginia Woolf

noreply@blogger.com (Harley Mazuk) — Wed, 05 Apr 2017 00:39:00 +0000

I signed up for a Stanford Continuing Studies online writing course, “The Gripping Read.” I’m trying to work on a new piece for the workshop. It flowed along fairly well for a few days, then Saturday, I had a very difficult time moving through a scene I was trying to write. Frank (the P.I.), and Vera, ( his ex-and-present lover and assistant), are trying to question a suspect in St. Francis Wood, a posh area of large homes. They go to one built against a hillside, a bit of a Spanish style that rises up, and they walk under a carriage house into a courtyard. There they see the suspect on the patio, one flight up. After a little banter she agrees to talk to them and walks across the patio and enters at the French doors. I had inordinate trouble with this. It must have taken me an hour and a half to put down 150 or so words. I struggled getting Frank and Vera invited up, and getting my suspect off her patio, and through the French doors to receive them. Even now, I’m considering chucking what I’ve written. It just wasn’t flowing.

But I saved that work and turned to the class reading which was from Frank Conroy’s Writers’ Workshop. I hadn’t seen this before but I very much liked it. Conroy breaks writing down to its most . . . elemental . . . elements, and he caught my fancy. Then he told a story of Virginia Woolf, who I believe played bass guitar for the Bloomsbury Group. Asked how her three hours of writing had gone one afternoon, she said, “Very well. I got them through the French doors and out onto the patio.”

My characters were going the other direction, but it was my Virginia Woolf moment.

Blog on

noreply@blogger.com (Harley Mazuk) — Fri, 31 Mar 2017 21:06:00 +0000

I have a lot of material out in the Blog-o-sphere to share with you. I’m still learning about this blog tour as I go, but it seems a number of sites have posted the interview I gave to the Dark Phantom Review:

Q: Congratulations on the release of your latest book, White with Fish, Red with Murder. To begin with, can you gives us a brief summary of what the story is about and what compelled you to write it?

A: White with Fish, Red with Murder is the story of private eye…

Read the rest of the interview on As the Pages Turn . . .

Joseph Arellano, of Joseph’s Reviews gave me a very positive, generous review:

White with Fish, Red with Murder is a debut work by Harley Mazuk. This is a mystery novel with some clever locations, quirky characters, and pitch perfect 1940s dialogue. The narrator, Frank Swiver, is a private detective in San Francisco – circa 1948, who is eager for a paying client. As luck would have it, Frank’s interest in wine is the ticket to a job! Retired General Lloyd F. Thursby has planned an excursion on his private rail car with wine tasting as the entertainment.

Here's the rest of the review.

A number of fine sites have pushed out an excerpt from the book. Here’s one:

EXCERPT:

A few lights were on in the lounge; I could see burgundy wallpaper with dark wood trim. To my right were two dining tables, each with four seats, and on the left an upright piano with a light oak finish. Beyond that, a group of folks sat in the far end of the car. I led Vera partway down, until the man facing us spoke.

“Ah, you must be Frank Swiver,” he said.

Read the rest of the excerpt.

The Blog Tour Continues

noreply@blogger.com (Harley Mazuk) — Fri, 17 Mar 2017 23:52:00 +0000

Here are some updates on my Blog Tour. Please support these fine bloggers who support my book:

The Story behind White with Fish, Red with Murder

by Harley Mazuk

White with Fish, Red with Murder is a noir-ish private eye tale. There’s a love triangle, tough guys, lying dames, a couple of murders, greed, lust, jealousy, and nefarious schemes. It’s the kind of stuff I like to read, and I thought I should write what I like.
It started out with my 50th birthday. Read more:
https://thestorybehindthebook.wordpress.com/2017/03/07/the-story-behind-white-with-fish-red-with-murder/

The Writing Life with Harley Mazuk

What’s inside the mind of a mystery author?

Murder most foul. I lean toward noir stories, so lying dames, corrupt souls with depraved sensibilities, double-crosses, nefarious schemes.

What is so great about being an author?

Read my answer and more at: http://thewriterslife.blogspot.be/2017/03/the-writing-life-with-harley-mazuk.html

Talking Craft with Mystery Author Harley Mazuk at the Dark Phantom Review

A: White with Fish, Red with Murder is the story of private eye Frank Swiver, who accepts an invitation to a wine tasting on a private rail car, and brings along his secretary and lover, Vera Peregrino. They’re two thirds of a love triangle. The host, Frank’s client, General Thursby, wants him to find proof that a friend whose death was ruled accidental was in fact murdered. Thursby suspects Cicilia O’Callaghan, widow of his late friend, an old flame of Frank’s, and the third leg of that triangle. But Thursby takes two slugs through the pump, and the cops arrest Vera for his killing. Frank spends his nights with Cici, and his days trying to find Thursby’s killer and spring Vera. But soon he realizes he must change his way of thinking, or risk losing both women . . . and maybe his life.
Read more: https://thedarkphantom.wordpress.com/2017/03/09/talking-craft-with-mystery-author-harley-mazuk/

Fun to see a good review from Bookloons

noreply@blogger.com (Harley Mazuk) — Thu, 09 Mar 2017 19:39:00 +0000

I’ll bet it seems like you can’t go to the Interwebs anymore with seeing “Harley Mazuk.”

A couple more stops along the way on the blog tour:

First, a “Chapter Reveal” (an excerpt from Chap. 1):

“Ah, you must be Frank Swiver,” he said.

Then I got a swell review on Blookloons:

“Author Harley Mazuk begins a debut series with White with Fish, Red with Murder taking place in 1948 San Francisco. Protagonist Frank Swiver is at a point in his life where paying the electric bill would cut into his purchase of wine, and his fondness for the company of women.

At the moment, his romantic attention is centered on the secretary in his Private Investigator's office. When he is invited to wealthy wine connoisseur Frank Thursby's wine tasting held in the man's private railroad car, he readily accepts. To his astonishment, an ex-girlfriend is also there – the widow of a man well-known in the wine community. Cicilia has been accused of deliberately serving her husband, Rusty, eggs loaded with poisonous mushrooms.”